It had been so long ago and yet the memory still had the power to make his skin prickle. Athos reached for the brandy once more, refilled his mug and took a goodly mouthful. D'Artagnan stoked the fire while Aramis retrieved some apples and passed them round. When they were all settled again, Athos took a deep breath to steady himself before restarting his tale.
Young and still innocent, Olivier slept deeply, unlike the man he would become who slept with one eye open and a hand on his sword. Olivier didn't hear the door to his room open nor the four men approaching his bed. The sack was over his head and cruelly secured about his neck and his arms and legs immobilized before he was awake enough to think about fighting. Trussed up like a Noel goose, he was carried down the stairs and outdoors. It wasn't until the unpleasant odor assaulted his nostrils that he figured out where they had taken him.
The rest of his ordeal was a kaleidoscope of painful vignettes, stored in the deep recesses of his mind. The edges had grown tattered and torn over the years, but the intensity of the images remained. He had been chained to the wall like a rabid dog, his ankles encased in cruel iron circlets. Neither food or water had been provided and by the second day Olivier was thirstier and hungrier than he ever remembered being in his privileged life. And he wasn't alone in this prison; Comte Dufort also was chained within the walls of his own torture room, the one he had built to punish his servants. Ironically, it was now being used by its previous occupants to torture him. The women of the household were also confined, as Olivier had discovered later. They were kept in the house, locked in the old nursery in the upper regions of the domicile. They were denied their normal creature comforts, but had not been beaten or violated unlike what had occurred to the female servants at the hands of Comte Dufort.
For the first day of their captivity, the Comte had yelled himself hoarse issuing all sorts of dire threats against the servants who had initiated this rebellion. How the Comte thought he was going to escape and carry out these unspeakable actions was beyond Olivier, who sat quietly chained to the wall, simply observing. The servants who came in and out of the room simply ignored him, focusing all their attentions on the object of their hatred, the Comte Dufort.
This rebellion, as the Comte called it, appeared well thought out Olivier mused as he sat chained to the wall. This wasn't some spontaneous action, but rather something that had been organized over time, with a well formulated plan. Olivier supposed the only variable not accounted for was him being at the estate. But his captors had adapted.
The servants used the Comte's own tools of torture against him. They strung his hands over his head, shackled at the wrist and attached to a chain looped over a beam. They raised him off the ground until his toes were barely brushing the dirt. He'd been stripped of all his clothing, except for his braies, the ultimate humiliation factor. The Comte hung there like a pig waiting for slaughter. Olivier kept his eyes adverted from the spectacle as much as circumstances allowed.
The servants, led by Andre, began punishing the Comte the same way he had 'disciplined' them over the years. Caning, flagellation, and branding were performed on the captured Comte over the course of the next two days. After the first day, the Comte ceased his yelling and threats. By the morning of day two he was no longer being stalwart, but had disintegrated into begging and pleading for them to cease. By the morning of the third day of no food, little water and endless corporal punishment, the Comte showed no reaction at all; he might have been dead as he hung there from the rafters.
In the afternoon of day three, the servants had taken a break from their revenge, cut the Comte down and left him lying in the muck on the floor. Olivier, using the slack his chains allowed, crawled across the space separating them. He'd observed a doctor once determining if a man was alive by feeling for the man's pulse in his throat. With shaky fingers, Olivier reached for the motionless Comte's neck. He let out a small sigh of relief when he felt a sluggish heartbeat.
Sitting back on his heels, Olivier studied the beaten man. There was no denying what the Comte had done to his servants over the years was cruel and inhumane. Yet, the law allowed him to treat his property as he saw fit. Any man of common decency would not have treated his servants as such, but were Comte Dufort's actions heinous enough for him to be put to death in such a manner? Underneath it all, did all servants hate their employers this much?
For a moment that gave the future Comte de La Fére pause. What of Karl? Had he known of this rebellion? Had he been informed? Was it a coincidence that Karl had to take the wagon back to Pinon right before this all went down?
Karl had said he had to take a metal part back to the smithy that couldn't be fixed here for he lacked the necessary specialized tools. Olivier, wanting to escape the manipulations of the Comte and his daughters, had practically begged Karl to let him accompany him home. But Comte Dufort had rebuffed the idea, wanting the young lord to spend more time with his daughters to get to know them better. Dufort clearly expected that one of his progeny would be the future Comtesse de la Fére. He had the young Comte 'hostage' and wasn't ready to release him yet.
So, Karl had driven off in the wagon, alone, declaring he'd be back within the week. Olivier had watched him drive way with envy and resentment. And the next day the rebellion occurred.
Had Karl known? Had he left deliberately? Olivier couldn't convince himself that Karl was involved. Remy and he were friendly and he always thought Karl liked him well-enough. Or was Karl only being polite to him because of his father? Was he as naive as his father often claimed when it came to the intentions of others?
It was stifling in the room and the sweat uncomfortably trickled down Olivier' spine as he lingered next to the unconscious Comte. It had rained last night and out of the corner of his eye, Olivier spotted a small puddle of water that he hadn't seen from his previous position. He thought he might be able to reach it within the confines of his chains. Slowly making his way across the putrid dirt, he shuffled to where the puddle had formed. It wasn't sanitary by any means, but after days with limited water he didn't really care. He lowered his palm into the murky water and scooped up a dirty palm-full. Gagging, he barely got the muddy liquid down his parched throat. After forcing down a second disgusting mouthful, he had to stop as his stomach began to revolt.
Glancing back over his shoulder, he debated if he could get any of the brackish water into the Comte and whether it would do any good. Taking the end of his shirt, which he'd been allowed to keep, he dipped it in the puddle and soaked up some of the moisture. Hobbling back over to the Comte, he squeezed the linen which dropped precious beads of liquid into the man's mouth. Instinctively, the unconscious man swallowed much to Olivier's relief. The boy made the trip to and from the puddle a few more times before the door burst open, flooding the semi-darkness with light.
His captors were not happy to see he was aiding the Comte and roughly dragged him away, stripping his shirt from him in the process. They flung him against the back wall where his chains were attached. He hit the wall with a resounding thud before sliding into the dirt. He lay still and watched as they made ready to haul the Comte, who had regained consciousness, back onto his feet. The groan that escaped the man was heart-rendering and Olivier found himself compelled to shout to leave him alone. The servants looked at each other for a moment, then let the Comte slump to the ground as they advanced upon Olivier. Before he knew it, he was hauled up by one man to face another who was holding a whip.
"We have been lenient with you so far because you never mistreated us. But how dare you think you can tell us what to do to this scum. You have no idea what terrible deeds he has performed. This man has forced our women, beaten our men and treats us worse than barnyard animals," shouted Andre the butler.
"What he did was undeniably wrong, but regrettably it is within his rights," Olivier replied fighting to keep his voice steady as he tried to reason with the angry butler.
"Does he have the right to kill us? My son? Who he hung in this very room, whipped, then left him to die? His daughter?" Andre gestured towards the man in the corner. "His thirteen-year-old daughter, who this pig allowed to be passed around to his hunting buddies for their disgusting pleasure?"
Olivier mustered his young courage, raised his head, and looked his captor square in the eye. "No. All those things are wrong. Grievously, wrong. And as such, Comte Dufort should be brought to justice by the proper authorities."
The servant holding him burst out laughing. "Proper authorities," he parroted. "Yes. Let's bring our case to the local constable, or Palace guards. Perhaps even the King himself." Andre stopped laughing. "Boy, you said it yourself. He is within his 'rights' to treat us as he chooses. Who shall we go to for 'justice' that will take our side?"
"I would," Olivier answered with conviction of the young and innocent.
Andre shook his head sadly. "If you tried to defend us to your kind, the nobility who rule France with their cruel iron fists, you'd find yourself stripped of your titles or hanged as a traitor to France."
Andre gestured to the other two men in the room. They unchained Olivier from the wall, grabbed him by the arms, dragged him across dirt, and reattached his manacles to a second chain dangling from the rafters. When he was suspended, toes barely brushing the floor, the two servants stepped away.
"Let's teach the future lord a lesson he won't forget." Andre picked up the cat-of-nine tails and gave it a little flick. "Think upon this, in the future, when your mind wanders to believe there can ever be justice for the low born."
With that, he raised the leather and brought it to bear upon the boy's back. It was only a few lashes. But it was enough to embed the lesson in Olivier's brain forever, not to mention the physical scars on his back he carried for the rest of his life.